


darling, just start the chase

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some kind of a modern, southern captain swan au<br/>small town savior emma swan, stuck after the consequences of her bad decisions, meets mysterious brit in town looking for a favor</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling, just start the chase

She sits on her usual perch – the back corner seat at the bar – which affords her a clear view of anyone entering the establishment. Her boots are dusty from her ride out to the edge of town earlier today, the red, dry dirt in desperate need of some rain – and soon. She’d been visiting David out at his ranch and she’d watched as Mary Margaret wiped the sweat from her brow, sighing at the lack of green in her garden.

But, as much as she’s known as the savior ‘round here, she can’t quite conjure up the rain.

She leans over the bar and tops off her beer straight from the tap, catching Ruby’s eye across the way. Ruby rolls her eyes, but this is nothing new, Emma’s always serving herself when she doesn't feel like waiting. Perks of being a silent partner in the bar. Or something.

“You know, if I did that, she’d have my head,” the voice coming from beside her is wry and low.

Emma spins on her stool and tilts her head to look up at Robin. “Join me for a drink?” She asks, reaching over the bar before he can answer and pouring a second beer.

“One drink,” he agrees, sliding onto the stool next to hers.

She’s draining her drink like it’s water but Robin sips at his, staring at the drink as if it’s a puzzle. It’s a mostly companionable silence, them both having spent so much time together over the years. He can sense, somehow, that she just wants the company, the warm presence beside her, and she appreciates that about him. Though she does try to make conversation, in case that’s what he needs, “How’s the shop?”

“Doing well,” he murmurs, still distracted, making Emma grin, because she knows  _exactly_ what’s on his mind.

“How’s the Mayor?” She pokes at him with her index finger, remembering the day Ms. Mills strolled into his custom bike shop and disdainfully told them both that she hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a front for some sort of  _motorcycle club_.

“Storybrooke’s no place for that kind of thing,” she’d said with a sneer while Robin was unpacking boxes and boxes of tools and motorcycle parts - and Emma was straightening up the reception desk.

Emma had bristled at the accusation, but Robin had brought out the charm and - in the end - the charm had won her over. They were an incongruous pair, but Emma was happy for her friend.

Mostly.

When she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself, that is.

The question gains her a full smile from her companion and he sits up straight, draining his beer in a long gulp.

“Great, actually. Which reminds me, I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now.”

“Well then. Go get your woman, Outlaw,” she teases him, the nickname of their younger days, riding wild along the dusty roads out of town, rolling off her tongue before she can stop it.

“Later, Swan,” he tosses back at her as he leaves, almost bumping into the stranger who’s making his way into the bar.

* * *

 This is new.

Emma feels a jolt run through her at the presence of a new face. And maybe, just maybe it’s going to be exactly what she needs to brush off this funk she’s found herself in. She’s been feeling sorry for herself, feeling the edges of memory and guilt so sharp in her heart. Maybe it’s all her friends settling down – Ruby with her bar and her sheriff, Mary Margaret and David with their garden and rescue animals. Jefferson off on adventures with his band, adventures that she was supposed to be on with him, not stuck in this town hungry for more.

But mistakes are mistakes and consequences usually follow.

* * *

 

The stranger almost looks like he fits into their little scene – dark jeans, motorcycle boots, leather jacket. But, upon closer inspection, his jeans are more of the tailored variety than worn into his body like second skin, and his boots are scuffed but not dusty, so if he’s been riding recently, it sure as shit wasn’t today or he’d be as dusty as her. She would even swear that he’s wearing some eyeliner around his eyes, but she’s withholding judgment on that until she gets a closer look.

He’s scanning the room like he has a target in mind, which sends a chill down Emma’s spine. It’s a tingling awareness that she’s long since learned not to ignore. So she drains her beer and she shouts over the din, “Over here, new guy.”

She makes her voice deeper, harder; maybe trying to make him sweat a little. She does favors for friends, but she gets a little itchy when her friends send  _other people_  her way.

She does not much like strangers coming into her town (and these days it sure feels like hers, like she’s the one who will always be here, sticking it out till the end.) And she especially does not like strangers who give her goosebumps. The pleasurable kind.

“You Swan?” He asks with the arch of a brow and a accented voice, and if he’s intimidated by her tone or her pose, it certainly doesn’t show. 

She nods in assent, but she doesn’t say  anything else, as he weaves his way through the crowd – most of them parting when they realize who he’s here to see. She guesses that’s the kind of weight she pulls around here, having helped most of these folks out of a jam or two over the years, though sometimes it’s a heavy weight.

“Jeff tell you I was coming by?” He continues, as he slides into the seat that Robin had occupied just moments ago.

She releases a tiny huff of air because no, Jeff decidedly did not tell her that he’d sent a poor unfortunate soul her way. But she’s not surprised. He’s somewhere between New York and Los Angeles right now – up in his private jet, or his label’s private jet – living the rock star life. 

A life that should have been hers, too. 

_No, no, thats dangerously close to bitterness. Calm yourself, Emma._

“You mind?” She asks as she grabs the empty pint glass and refills it, wiping around

the edges of the glass. “I swear its previous owner’s clean.”

He shrugs and takes a sip, “Not going to say no to a free beer.”

She laughs. “Easy, tiger. Who said anything about free?”

* * *

 

His name is Killian and he’s looking for somebody and he met Jefferson years ago when they were both trying to break into the music circuit down in Austin. Jefferson made it and he didn't, but they kept in touch all these years, so when he was looking for somebody who might have come her way, Jefferson called him and told him to look up Swan because – and he quotes – she’s the best for somebody who’s not even in the biz.

She bites her lips to keep from smiling at that. Maybe it’s true, that she’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found, but she’d hardly call herself the best. She just has a lot of free time on her hands, given that all she does is make a little money helping people out and cashing in favors.

Shit, no matter how much these people have known her all their lives, sometimes she thinks that once she went to jail, she became something  _different_ and now can never go back. But this stranger – Killian – he does not know anything about that past and it’s nice to talk to somebody who sees beyond what everybody else in this town does. 

In fact, if he wasn’t talking business with her, she might follow up on that spark of interest that she sees in his eyes, the gleam in them as his glance flicks down to her lips as she bites them, his gaze holding as she drags her teeth across her lower lip.

Hell, maybe she will, even if they  _are_  talking business. 

And because that stare causes her heart to give a little kick, she calls him out on it, “Hey, eyes up buddy.”

He doesn't seem all that bothered by her comments because he leans in closer, the scraping sound of the stool accompanying his movement, “At least I wasn't looking even lower.”

She rolls her eyes, “Praise be for small mercies,” the words dripping with sarcasm that delights him, if the expression on his face is anything to go by.

But her heart is racing because this is more fun than she’s had in a long time. So this time, after she refills her beer, she tugs at the hem of her tank top, lowering the neckline just enough so that a hint of curve is exposed, just enough to dare him – dare him to stare, dare him to keep looking at her with that heat in his eyes.

And she knows in that moment. She’s going to help him, and she’s going to take him home with her tonight.

* * *

 

She lets Ruby ask him the basic questions – you got a room in town and you got a girl stashed away somewhere – but Emma already knows the answers before she asks, because she’s been busy sending some discreet texts while he’d been telling the story of how he met Jefferson.

No lies there. Even without the additional confirmation she would have known that, just as she knew when he walked in that he’d been looking for her, her cursed intuition, or  _gift_ , as her friends like to call it jokingly. As if she’s some sort of psychic with an 800 number. 

Ruby leaves them to talk longer, but now that she’s decided about him, Emma’s beginning to get that restless buzzing in her blood. She wants to know how his lips feel against hers and she wants to know if his hands are as good as she hopes they are, with his long fingers and those rings that he wears with no shame.

She’s never been into men with jewelry before, but suddenly she wonders if he’ll take them off when his hands are on her body, of if he’ll keep them on.

She wonders which she’ll want when the time comes.

He must be able to read the gleam in her eyes because the next time he makes direct contact with her, it’s his thigh sliding up against hers. His tongue sneaks out to flick against the corner of his lips, and she’s a goner.

She drains the rest of her beer and she raises her brows at him while she asks, “Shall we get out of here?”

The beauty of it is he doesn’t pretend like he’s not aware  _exactly_  what she means. 

* * *

 

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs against her skin as he backs away from her.

Just moments ago she’d been pressed against her door, his hands dragging her shirt off, thumbs pressing her nipples as his lips pressed hotly against her neck. His hips are still digging into her, her fingers sliding into the loops of his jeans, keeping that hot, hard erection anchored between her legs.

“I want to use you,” she says, “I want you on your back and I want to ride you until you’re wrecked and I can’t breathe.”

Heat flares between them as he groans and his hipbone digs into her skin. When his lips swoop down and capture hers, it’s his teeth and tongue that tease her, the sharp pull and the soothing lick. She thrusts her arms out, pushing him away, but she’s gasping for air in the best way, her lungs not filling enough because the push and pull between them sucks all of the oxygen out of the air.

"You like it a little rough," his voice is deep and low; it's a statement not a question.

"Tonight I do," she replies, and that's enough for him, by the set of his jaw and the way his grip tightens on her body.

They make their way to the bedroom, clothes coming off in bits as they test out all of the surfaces and walls between the entryway and her bedroom - him pressing her, her pressing him - lips and teeth on bare skin, collarbones and earlobes, and the scraping of nails down backs and arms.

When they’re on her bed, stripped down, his teeth close around a nipple and tug and her hands slide under his briefs and find his erection, hot and hard, smooth against her hand and he thrusts his hips and tugs harder with with teeth to let her know that he cans handle more. Her grip tightens and she can feel his muscles tense, and then relax, as she gives a few rough, experimental pulls.

He groans her name - Emma - and it's the first time he's used it all night. She almost prefers to be called Swan, so few people use  Emma these days, but it catapults them into another level of intimacy. She could pull away now, run am scared from it, but his hands are beginning to slide lower and lower until they reach her slick folds. And she knows then that she's not going to stop this because she wants to tight coiled feeling in her belly and she wants that burst of pleasure that's on the other end.

He's gentle at first, fingers sliding, exposing her clit, circling it, getting her more wet, more ready for what comes next - the quick thrust of two fingers inside her, a jolt of sensation that makes her exhale with its force. She releases her grip on him and she can feel the curve if his lips against her breast as she gives over to the sensation, her hips riding up against the heel of his hand, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

He twists his fingers and it makes her gasp and she hears his voice over the sex noises, "You like that, don't you. What else do you like?"

"Your mouth," she moans, "I want your mouth on me." It comes out low and needy but he must be able to hear the demand behind it because he complies so quickly that she feels a shock run through her body when his lips circle her clit and pull. 

And then his fingers are gone and his tongue swipes across her, a broad, tasting stroke before he says roughly, “Use me. Ride my tongue, darling.”

“That’s not what I had in mind,” she says as he continues to taste her. She’d leaned up on her elbows so she could watch him between her legs, his eyes closed and his mouth pressed against her.

His tongue dips inside her the sharp pleasure of it makes her throw her head back. “But it works for me,” she continues as she rolls her hips up to meet his mouth until the first wave of her orgasm releases.  

* * *

 

It’s been so hot and dry, and her air conditioner’s been on the fritz, so they’re both flushed and sweaty Killian shifts up next to her on the bed. He’s stripped off his briefs and Emma’s chest is rising and falling rapidly as she catches her breath, a trickle of sweat crawling down her skin, between her breasts.

“So,” he says as he rolls to face her, and she shifts just enough that she can look him in the eye. And she was right earlier in the bar, his eyeliner is smudged and she wonders exactly what it is about him with his make-up and his rings that makes her skin buzz with excitement. He hadn’t removed his rings before, and their ridges and cool metal only enhanced everything she’d felt with his fingers and his tongue.

“So,” she replies as she swings a leg over his hips and straddles him, body hovering, not touching just yet.

He reaches up and his lips wrap around the tip of her breast, swinging free between them as she reaches for a condom. “I seem to recall a promise you on your back.”

“Indeed,” he murmurs, his hands brushing along her sides before gripping her hips as she rolls the condom down him.

He’s fully inside her in one thrust, both of them grunting at the force of it, but even though she’d claimed to want to use him, this time it’s really all him, the way he controls her hips with his hands, the way he holds her still as he fucks up into her.

He sits up and their chests press together, and again she’s hit with the intimacy of everything between them - even though they’ve just met, even though she has no last name for him, she can feel the rapid pulse against her lips as she sucks on his skin, her face buried in the crook of his neck.

His arm wraps around her back as he pulls their hips as close together as possible, his sharp thrusts deepening, slowing, as she feels that coil building inside her again. His other hand finds her hair and he wraps it around his fist as he holds her body still and just moves and moves until she gasps his name.

He’s quiet when he comes, a catch of his breath and a quick bite to her shoulder and they stay there, not moving, for moments, catching their breath, bodies fused together with sweat-slicked skin and racing hearts.

* * *

 

He’s still there the next morning, in her bed, and even though she knows that it’s partly because they have business to attend to, she likes the way it feels. She knows it’s dangerous to like it so much, but she finds she can’t help herself as she slides down his body and she coaxes him to coherence - and then incoherence - with her lips wrapped around him.

“Careful, love,” he says after. “We keep on like this I might just stick around after the job’s done.”

He watches her cautiously after the words escape his mouth, as if he didn’t quite mean to show his hand so early.

It throws her off balance, but in her bed, sheets wrapped around her body as she watches him dressed, she feels safe enough to reply, “Careful. I might hold you to that.”


End file.
